And so it is that the painting is complete. I stripped the tape from my trim and baseboards earlier this very afternoon, and assembled a masking tape ball very nearly the size of my own head. I've screwed the faceplates back upon their typical homes of my lightswitch and my many electrical outlets, and now all that remains is the task of assembling my room. Which I am only too happy to set out upon, save the initial starting up incentive of a piece of cheesecake, for which Broken and I are soon to be heading out to fetch. We went out last night for dinner, but ended up having fajitas, and the vegetable stir fry they presented me for my build-it-yourself fajita thing was so chock full of fried onions that I felt positively greasy as we left, and so mildly ill (I mean, it was delicious, but... never again!) that we put aside our plans to go venturing onwards for dessert and coffee, and now that my room is prepared (and given that I spent my morning moving a stand-up freezer up three flights of stairs into our kitchen with Kincaid, and god are those buggers heavy...) I feel entitled to have some creamy strawberry-topped goodness. Oh yes indeed.

It's funny, but I find myself weighed down, and this might be contributing to the queer moods I've been suffering of late. My endless optimism is being smacked by the fly-swatter of reality as I discover that living with other people doesn't really get any better even if you aren't living in a house packed with petty goths. Of course, I suppose I still am. But there are still the same problems that I had with H'Tog, and I'm finding it so frustrating to continue my life, trapped again in such an unproductive, childish environment. Pixiegirl and Ben are still at odds. Ben, and he and I had a serious talk yesterday, really likes Pixiegirl, and though she might not care to believe it, wants very much for their friendship to work out. He intends to have a sit-down, all-out conversation with her when she's ready, so that they might iron out their differences and solve whatever issues are lying at the bottom of all these petty outbursts. Pixiegirl, and she and I had a serious talk yesterday, agrees that she has to talk with him , but at present feels that his presence still angers her, so she spends most of her time in her room, or playing on Kincaid's Playstation. I'm just left wondering how far this is going to carry on. At this point she's asked him to get his own phone line, because they were sharing, but I guess they've had conflicts over its usage. So I can't be optimistic -- what with the situation at hand being what it is. Life isn't perfect, and life isn't easy, and it's only when our two combatants realise this, and understand that good things usually only happen when you work for them, that this cycle of helplessness and pettiness and bickering might stop.

In the end, I'm just easily put into a bad mood when the people around me are in bad moods themselves. The easy solution is for someone to leave, but I don't think I want that. I mean, sometimes my nerves are just a little frayed from the trying personality conflicts between my friends (the irony of this all is that Ben is only here because he and Pixiegirl were such great friends at H'Tog that she asked if he might be able to move in with us), but what exasperates me even more is the resignation towards it. Ben, Lord love him, is trying as hard as he can. And in spite of the fact that our property manager was by yesterday to inspect the roof, and apparently he saw Ben's room (it's black. He painted his windows over in black paint, installed a red light in the ceiling fixture, put his black lights in the corners, and a big green light at the opposite end. He painted a door to a little crawlspace built into his room black with rust paint, and decorated two of his walls by cleaning his brushes upon them, as a stopgap until he buys some real paint...) and didn't like it one bit (We have to send them a written agreement that we'll repaint before we leave now.), I'm willing to give him a chance because he is, for the most part, decent and responsible. Pixiegirl, on the other hand, feels like she just isn't meant to live with other people. And maybe no one is, truly. I like my solitude very much. But the point is, we are living together. We are sharing a house. And if she doesn't work to fix her problems, she's just stuck being even more trapped and helpless by the next problem which comes along. Sometimes you honestly have to do something for yourself, because trying to ignore it just makes you realise how impotent you are, and you get more frustrated and irritable and the problem just gets larger and larger until you're completely overwhelmed. Which to some extent I think is going on right now.

Rest assured, I will die before I let this place becomes as bad as H'Tog. I am not willing to come home after each day of my work and my gallavanting, and have to deal with people fighting amongst themselves, gossipping about each other behind their respective backs, forming into cliques and making this space uninhabitable. If we have to toss someone (and I don't even know who that would be) out onto his or her ear in order to keep the peace, well, I'm sure I know at least one person who would properly appreciate moving into here and helping create a positive living environment. But I really, really hope it's just as simple as one or two people growing up.

At long last I have my precious paint, and when I got home late last night, I started upon the task of painting my bedroom. In fact, it was during South Park, aired here at midnight, and I must admit I do like the tedious noise of television when I'm engrossed in something like painting a room. Even though it certainly involves my back being turned to the cacaphony for the entire time, I find I can comfortably lose myself in a different state of consciousness when I'm paying attention to several things at once; that is, what I'm doing, the dialogue and plot of a television show, and some inner level of my deepest darkest thought centres. At any rate, I was dead and gone at about two in the morning, at which point I was approximately halfway through the first coat of paint. Although the paint itself looked positively horrid when it was wet in the can (just a little less pink than, say, Pepto-Bismol), it had by that point dried to an absolutely fetching medium purple on my walls. I absolutely love the colour, and everyone who's seen it so far agrees that it is turning out splendidly. As of this afternoon I've finished the entire first coat, and am just about to set out on getting the second coat onto my thirsty walls. I know I should be going out and having fun right now, but I'm a peculiar kind of creature which detests loose ends, and I'm not about to take myself away from what has become my quest (for a boy who has no white charger or magical shield, I go on a surprising number of quests in the average week. It's a shame I don't get more comely lasses out of the deal) for anything -- even food.

Hmm. Food. Maybe I should rethink this 'dedication' thing. I'm actually kinda hungry. I was shocked by my spending habits as they've been played out this past week, so I've spent the past two days resolutely not spending any money. My balance is shockingly low, and even though I get paid in a few days, I should get in the habit of actually saving my money. Still, it's not like I have any gold crowns or harem girls to show for it or anything; I have been sinking a ton of money into getting this place properly home-ified. So maybe I deserve to go out and treat myself to a falafel sandwich and maybe something ghastly like a strawberry smoothie (sweet Orange Julius!). Yeah. That's it. Well, we'll see. Broken is coming over later, probably (she has yet to officially move into her room), and perhaps that just means I'll have to take her out for dinner to celebrate my beautiful walls. Meanwhile, hunger (or, as Caira would put it, Hung-or) rumbles in my tummy.

I will definitely be glad to get this painting completed, for a number of reasons. The first of them being simply that I can undertake my long-awaited unpacking. I've been living out of boxes for a week and, let me tell you, that wears thin mighty fast when I'm living in such a huge, cool room that has become almost impossible to navigate simply because it is stuffed with large ugly boxes. Having seen the results of just one coat of paint, I've managed to assemble a mental image of how my room shall look when I get it set up right and proper, and I feel fully confident in saying that I shall, with only a minor delay, have created what surely must be my best bedroom yet. And if for nothing else, I am noted for having extremely cool bedrooms. Aw, why be modest? I'm noted for an awful lot of things, a surprising number of them requiring only my hands or mouth. I mean, heck, I'm also noted for being a whiny, self-deprecating, miserable little bugger most of the time. That must qualify me of all people to be just a little obnoxious now and then.
Oh, that was a pleasant little diversion, but where was I? Oh yes. At this point I'm also in my "painting clothes" and I'm highly anxious to get out of them. These are clothes which don't even get to be called my "lounging around clothes," or even my "lounging around when there's not the slightest chance at all that anyone could hope to see me" clothes (which is sometimes the same as being naked, but sometimes I just like the feeling of knowing that if my dead ancestors are actually following me around the way I sometimes suspect, that they aren't seeing my bare bottom), but just, "painting clothes." They aren't even that comfortable. I'm wearing a pair of blue (blue at least being the most dominant colour in the pattern they bear) swimming trunks which are actually OK, but they aren't very flattering unless I'm wearing a cool shirt or two, and I'm most definitely not wearing a cool shirt. What I am wearing is a bright (neon) green t-shirt which reads "Save the world" in big neon pink letters across a picture of earth as seen from the moonscape. I got it from my grandmother when I was fifteen, and so it's just a bit small on me. And it has a huge rip down the right side. So I'm hiding in my room until I'm finished, which is for the best, because I look like a dork.

For some odd reason, I was very sad last night. Not "miserable," and not "unhappy," which seem to be states which must have specific causes, but genuinely the simple feeling of sadness which lacks any real focus, except that perhaps I was feeling lonely. And this is odd, given all that I have. I suppose I've been dwelling on the sense of loss which built up at my friend's wedding last weekend; she and her husband moved away shortly afterwards to Red Deer, Alberta, which is quite far away, and one of my best friends from high school told me there that he himself was moving to Toronto in August to pursue his acting/comedy dreams, and it just seems like, bit by bit, everyone I love is getting farther away. And my Phil attack the day afterwards didn't help my feeling of loss and uncertainty either. Plus I brought Broken's Jewel CD to work with me yesterday. And on yet another tangent, let me just say -- I love my job. I come to work, do the best dang job I can, and meanwhile I jam a CD into the computer's internal drive, pop on my headphones, and indulge myself in my favourite songs. I might even be able to be hired back for the fall again. Can you imagine? Rob triumphs again. Zow. I'm not sure I can believe it.
Anyway, not a lot of people seem to like Jewel. I'm not really sure why that is. She doesn't seem to have a lot of snob appeal.. perhaps it's because she gets so much radio play. I don't know. Anyway, I like her CD very much, so if you don't know anyone cool that likes Jewel, well, at least you know me. In any case, there's this song on the album about these two painters who fall in love, and surround themselves in their art, and live their lives out happily, until one of them dies suddenly. And it's such heart-ripping song about loss. I'd never heard it through headphones before, and for some reason I find this the purest way to enjoy music. You get to hear everything. Anyway, there I was, listening to this song, and crying because I was thinking about it and so utterly moved by how easily the things we love are taken from us. I listened to it all day and I'm sure it was the third of fourth time before I just found it beautiful and sad, and even then a tear would occasionally tug at one eye.

Hey, pretend I'm under a lot of pressure or something.

Last night it just progressed. I felt really tired and sad all night. I had to go find my brother to drop off a letter which my uncle had sent him (my older brother is very hard to get ahold of, so I have been designated Responsible Boy such that everything gets safely to him) regarding my grandmother's estate, and I was just feeling low and sad, and it wore on the farther I walked. By the time I had completed my mission (when I need to find my brother, I just check the Royal Oak. He works there, he loiters there. It's the greatest pub in town, and I'm very cross that it's not just down the street anymore), I was very glum indeed. And it didn't help that it was Friday night, and everyone was out having fun. Nothing makes you more attuned to the arrival of Friday than the demands of a 9-to-5 job, and yet I wasn't doing a dadblurned thing. It took me back to my teenage years, when I was kind of a wallflower and isolated on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere with no car, so my friends would all be out and I'd be stuck home feeling mildly alone. And the thing is, I could have gone out. I just didn't feel good enough about myself to bother anybody last night for attention. No hope, no self esteem. And certainly I'm very aware of how my busy lifestyle, and that of everyone I know, keeps us apart for large amounts of time. So I came home and painted.

But not before I sat down in the courtyard. There's this beautiful little courtyard in the market, only a street over from where I'm living now. I found it with my friend Laura (she who was recently married) during our wanderings once, three or four years ago, and it's been my favourite place in the entire city since. It's paved in cobblestones, is surrounded by fashionable outdoor patio cafes, has a big jolly fountain in the middle, and even has grass, benches, and trees off to the side. I feel safe there, and I only come there when I'm feeling especially happy (which is to say, when I'm with people I love), or especially unhappy (alone). So I stopped by last night. I'd intended to sit and sulk at the fountain for awhile, but there was a girl sitting there, so I kept walking, and moved to the bench. And I wrote a few thoughts down, and felt moody, and wished I'd brought a tape for my walkman (I never go anywhere without my briefcase, stuffed with essentials as it is), and I noticed said girl who was sitting on side of the fountain. She looked hunched-over and bored, which is the way I had wanted to sit, so my attention was caught. And I admit to only putting a little of my brain to work on anything other than feeling sorry for myself, but she looked unwell. She had a big leaf in her hands and was absent-mindedly picking it apart and tossing the pieces into the water. And I decided after a few minutes that if I couldn't enjoy the courtyard in solitude (there was a couple being couple-esque on a bench not far away), that I was just going to leave. But it nagged at me to make sure this person was alright before I left. And I didn't want to, so I didn't leave. But my conscience nagged at me, reminding me of all those times I've seen people who I thought might need some help, and upon seeing them I spent all my time debating whether I should or shouldn't, but because I was shy I never did and I ended up regretting it afterwards (when I was sixteen or seventeen, I saw someone walk down the street past me in tears, and felt too wishy washy to be a decent human being) because secretly I really do want to "Save the world," so I got up. And I walked over and tried to be as non-goony as I could (because I am a big galoot, and that's the truth). She saw me, and smiled, and I asked her, "Are you alright? I just wasn't sure." And she said "Yes," surprised that I'd ask such a thing. And I smiled and turned around and left. And, actually, felt like a weenie.

But then, I am a weenie.

Until last night.

Last night, Ben was heading out to Gatineau to get our paint (precious paint... I've taped up my borders and ceilings and removed the panels... I so want to paint), when Kincaid was gently poking fun at Pixiegirl's freshly-baked biscuits, which were rock hard. Ben joined in, and made some comment, at which point Pixiegirl became vexed and, not knowing what else to do, pulled his hair. He got angry at her. She got angry at him. He left. She vented, and now isn't talking to that person.

Bah.

I could have just lived alone, you know.

Just me and Broken, and that was it.

But I just had to be nice and take others with me.

Sigh.

Stupid friends.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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